crimson red and burnt gold
by Ten-Faced
Summary: - could very well be the flames, be they literal or symbolic. Or, perhaps it refers to them. [She kisses a rose, tosses it to the golden prince and knows he catches it.] AU, Saguru/Akako, implied Kaito/Aoko.


**crimson red and burnt gold** - could very well be the flames, be they literal or symbolic. Or, perhaps it refers to them. AU, Saguru/Akako, implied Kaito/Aoko.

I own nothing, read the note at the end. Might be OOC.

* * *

_You know, you know, did you know, of the prince, the witch and their story?  
And how love and magic made nothing of their glory?  
So come and listen, listen and learn  
Perhaps you shall laugh and cheer; perhaps you shall mourn  
But there was once a prince of fairy tales, golden and kind  
And a witch, vibrant with youth and beauty and her clever mind_

**– But be warned, this isn't a fairytale –**

* * *

Before the story begins, let us know of a witch who, once upon a time, wanted the hearts of all living men. Let us know that she, during the path of her quest to capture and enslave the hearts of all men befriended and fell in love with a magician who wore white, who smiled and charmed and flew around on wings of black feathers being a hero in his own way. Let us know that it didn't work out, that he never returned her feelings and gave her back her heart like the gentleman he was, and they went their separate ways in life.

Let us know that the witch matured after that encounter. Matured after realizing how important and fragile the heart was, after learning that love was more than some kind of excuse used in fairytales. She still had her beauty, and her magic, but no longer did she use it to capture hearts. Not by purpose.

Keep that in mind, and let us officially begin by telling of a prince.

Not just any prince. No, he was a kind, chivalrous prince, one with golden locks and gentle eyes and high morals and inherited wisdom, he once lived. Yes, he did, and he once lived in a small country, learning how to be a good ruler from his father and his people, for soon death would strike, as no man lived forever despite tales of magic jewels, and the kingdom was to have peace and good rulers, the sooner the better, and everything was such a rush-!

Passing the people, he was one from the stories, he was, one who went around slaying evil dragons and saving princesses from dreadful curses and capturing hearts. Asking how they did, why their actions took a certain path, he was a patient listening ear for troubles to pour out and cleanse the soul. Valiant, they sighed after him. Handsome. Just. Understanding. Sympathetic.

Perfect.

Perfect? Humans couldn't be perfect, but the whispered words of fierce beliefs spread, converting doubt and gaining wind till all knew of the prince, the perfect prince.

The witch learned, too. She heard the blood of the kingdom that went by the name of gossip, delivered by the voices and words and mouthes of fishwives and the travelling merchants and the men who worked in the docks and on the ships.

And her curiosity was peaked.

_**.penitenziagite.**_

_(Who claims of this perfection, when even I-_

I-

_With my magic and witchcraft has not yet reached that?)_

_But she wasn't angry about it. Just curious._

_**.penitenziagite.**_

So the witch travelled across the paths of Mother Earth under Father Sky, sleeping with distant stars singing lullabies to her and the lush grass her pillow, till she reached the heart of the land where the prince lived in, and she wondered and wandered.

It was a nice city, where the cobblestoned streets were flat and wide and clean and neat, and the witch glided over them like she was floating in her plain dress, gracefully making her way to her newest home with no plans but to observe-

-when fate intervened and she found herself in the way of a herd of horses bucking and rampaging, and she couldn't use magic to get out, not _now_, not _here, _with all the mortal humans present and watching, and she was going to die a ridiculously mundane death-

And a strong arm wrapped itself around her waist and pulled her out of the storm-like chaos of terrorized animals and into safety, a low voice, filled with concern-

"Are you alright, milady?"

She looked up dazedly, wondering what had happened, and her red eyes met the rumoured golden.

_**.opus transit in otium.**_

_(Did the Heavens stop? Did the angels sing?_

_No._

_But her heart did leap.)_

_And so did his._

_**.penitenziagite.**_

"You're the prince," her voice caught, and she was breathless, in surprise and – recognition? She had never known him before – she looked into the rumoured golden, but found that they were, close up, a rich oak coated with varnish, honey with amber and chocolate, warm sepia and auburn.

And she had thought only witches could have eyes like that, so enchanting and captivating.

He wasn't surprised at her knowing – everyone probably knew – but he did help her down, steadying her even after her feet were planted properly on the ground, hand lingering in hand with - longing? Desire?

"Please," the prince whispered, not letting words reach the gathering people. Why not? Let them hear, why not make them public? They weren't words of love-

"Be careful."

She nodded and watched as he left on his white horse, cheered and waved on by the people.

_**.penitenziagite.**_

_(And maybe, she sometimes thought with sweet, fond bitterness at the memories she couldn't throw away, couldn't help but to cherish, maybe it would have been better if the merciless hard hooves of the horses had crushed her before he could reach out and yank her out._

_But it didn't-_

_-and time didn't reverse._

_So she was left alive with memories.)_

_**.la mortz est super nos.**_

"You might want to be careful."

The red witch didn't look back to see the man in white, a former friend, a once maybe-could-have-been-lover, a magician, but that was because she didn't turn around to acknowledge their paths crossing together again.

Witches didn't get along with magicians. A lesson learnt the hard way, though they got along better than most, because she owed him and he owed her and it never balanced out evenly, but that's a story for another time, maybe.

"How so?"

A fluttering sound, the soft flicks of white feathers dancing in the air when the clever doves of his shook their wings to defy the pull of Mother Earth.

"He's not like us," and there wasn't a joke in his voice, and she considered listening, taking good heed to the joker in white with the sapphire eyes who gave good, sound advice when he was serious. "He doesn't _like_ us."

And 'us' wasn't the word that she once wanted, back when she was a naïve witch who wished to enslave all men with beauty and powers of Hell and magic, but was only the rounded up, generalization of those that did the supernatural, or seemed to do the supernatural with clever tricks and lucky coincidences.

"It could lead to death. You feel it, don't you? You know."

"I know."

_**.penitenziagite.**_

_(She was still naïve, even then._

_She-_

_-_didn't_-_

_-know.)_

_Not enough, anyways._

_**.penitenziagite.**_

"So what may I call you?"

The winds were crisp, her hair was fluttering in the air for all to see the ruby splendor, and he was close to her, close enough to have the crimson silk tickle his face, teasing and giving soft, sweet promises that might have been empty, might have been full, and she smelt like the rich, luxurious wine of royal feasts and balls, and was just as intoxicating.

"Akako," she tossed her hair, just a bit, a habit from some time ago back when she used to flirt with all men and radiated magical charm to capture and never let go from her enslaving spells. She was still charming, people told her, but that wasn't magic. "That's my name."

He kissed her hand, and sent electricity running down her body with the soft brushing of his lips. "A pleasure to meet you."

**_.virtus migrat in vitium._**

_(To meet, maybe, but could he guarantee the same for other times?)_

_**.nunc cuncta rerum debita.**_

In a perfect fairytale – like he was said to have come from, with his dashing good looks and perfect manners and kind heart of gold – she would have been a princess, helplessly under the control of an evil wizard, with, say, the powers of illusions and the true form of a monstrous spider.

In such stories, he would have rescued her from such evil, they would have fallen in love, and lived happily ever after in a castle of dreams come true.

That wasn't the situation she found herself in, but she liked to pretend, that every walk they took together down in the city square was an adventure in a magic castle, that she was a helpless princess – even if she absolutely, utterly hated the thought of having to be at the mercy of others – that there was a happy ending waiting for her.

It was a convincing daydream, one she was reluctant to let go of.

_**.exorbitant a semita.**_

Daydreams shattered all too easily.

Who knew what happened? Maybe someone realized, saw that her beauty was abnormal, her hair and eyes were red like blood, red like the forbidden Red Magic, that she had the unearthly charm around her, and maybe they suspected, enough to tell someone else until the word reached the prince's kind, listening ears and convinced him of the rumors based on truth.

Maybe they recognized her as a witch from records brought back from lands where the fires burnt to purge and cleanse, where she had escaped and parted ways with a friend in white who had black feathered wings.

Maybe she accidently let something slip in their long walks together. He was a sharp one, after all.

Maybe it just didn't matter, and it was only a matter of time.

But those were only speculations, yet more of her daydreams like past goals of enslaving all men or taking over the country with magic, like the recent happy illusions of happily ever afters and knights on white horses coming to the rescue of witches who, for the first time in their lives, wanted to be a princess with no powers.

Reality was harsh, cruel men from the King's Army chaining her up and throwing her into the cold dungeons on the hard stones that sapped her of warmth and gave the illusion of draining her life.

_**.penitenziagite.**_

_(What is my sin, then? For what crime am I treated unjustly as a prisoner?)_

_(Hold your evil tongue, witch, and repent.)_

_(. . .)_

_Reality was him not being there when she suffered those humiliations._

_**.penitenziagite.**_

And after, locked up behind bars like a common criminal, he came down to the dungeons, down to her private cells shared with no other life but a few rats, drunk and desperate.

"Did you lie to me?"

It wasn't the eloquent, careful words he liked to use. He wasn't strong then, and she realized that the strength was all a façade, because under the guise of a man who confidently acted as if he knew everything under Father Sky he was still a young boy who had much to learn about life.

_In Vino Veritas_.

"I never lied."

He wept, leaning against the wall on his side of the bars, hand trying to hide the captivating eyes of sepia and gold and honey and dark sunlight shedding glittering tears and she looked on with ruby-red eyes bright, tears unshed, because a witch couldn't cry-

-and if she was to die, to burn at the stake, she would take her witchcraft with her, unto death.

_**.la mortz est super nos.**_

Before she was tied to the stake, he came to her again, composed this time, and eyes dry. "Did you ever use magic on me?"

What would make him feel better? Would he live on as a valiant knight defending his country from evil magic if she lied, told him it was all under the black magic in the guise of love that he fell for her?

Would he manage to recover from the blow of the truth, that she never once used her magic after meeting him?

She wanted to hold his face in her hands again, tease him when he blushed and stuttered, but times for that had passed, and the boy was at the fork in his path to take. What would her words do to his future, what impact?

"What do you think I did?"

He may interpret that as he wished. A path in the future had to be chosen by oneself, not their loved ones.

Even if the loved one would die from their uncertainty.

_(Or so it could be.)_

_**.penitenziagite.**_

Then there's the priest chanting prayers, and she scoffs because it's like her own spells, only he dedicates them in the name of god and she calls upon Father Sky and Mother Earth, but she has long since learned that this is why witches are wanted dead and gone, because their thoughts are blasphemous and corrupting to the souls that should rightfully go to heaven's embrace.

Just for spite, she interrupts him once with a wide smile and a vain voice. "Oh, it's tea time!"

The prince, the just one, the knight of the white horse is there, watching, and there's turmoil in his lovely eyes, and the boy is showing through the cracks in the man's mask he wears as he comes up with the torch-

-and he's finally realized that she's never once casted a spell on him, bless his mind that finally pieced everything together, and he tries to reverse the damages, save the innocent woman, she never used the magic, never committed the crime-

-but it's too late, and others pass the flames onto the wood that is her platform, and oil applied prior catches fire with a roar like Lucifer's, and his cries are drowned by shouts at her, calling at her to repent and save her soul before it's truly too late.

Even with all the ruckus and the crushing forces of the wild mob-gone audience, he still hears her words, and the smile within them.

"Goodbye, my love."

It might be sarcasm. It might be genuine. It might be _god-damned anything_.

Who knows?

And then, her former friend, her once-unrequited love and a magician in white comes swooping out of the sky-

(but really, he just launched himself from the top of the clock tower at the appropriate time)

-with large, majestic wings of black feathers like his name that buffets everyone and everything with gusts of wind, and the fire finds itself under too great a pressure, and goes out.

Before they recover from the sudden surprise attack, he snaps his fingers, magically covers everything with roses of her color, and flies away with her to safety, because what are friends for but to bail out of situations where lives are in danger?

_**.penitenziagite.**_

_(She kisses a rose, tosses it to the golden prince and knows he catches it.)_

_**.opus transit in otium.**_

Her now-once-again-friend, the one with messy hair and sparkling sapphire eyes and black-feathered wings gets married. Not to her, no, but to a woman who has sky-blue eyes and kindness down in every fibre of her being.

She wishes them true happiness, and stands as a bridesmaid at their wedding, a small event in the meadows with wildflowers far away from _that place_.

_**.nunc cuncta rerum debita.**_

If this was a fairy tale, she might have gone back to him, become accepted by society and not labelled the witch. He might have come for her after all, abandoning everything for the sake of true love in the form of a redheaded witch who didn't magic her way to a man's heart (this time). They might have fallen in love again. They might have lived together happily.

_**.exorbitant a semita.**_

But if this was a fairy tale, she might have been a kind, golden haired princess who fell under a curse. He might have been the hero. They might have never gone through the flames, the calls for her to repent, the humiliation of being dragged through muck and mud for all to see her beauty still remaining unmarred.

_**.penitenziagite.**_

But she was a witch. He was a prince. Nothing changed there, and nothing really would. After all, in fairytales, it was the witch that was evil, the witch that was to fall at the blade of justice wielded by the prince on the side of good, right?

_**.penitenziagite.**_

Love didn't exist between two such in fairytales, and so it never happened in real life. Or so the records say, and who will know?

_**.la mortz est super nos.**_

_(So he kept the rose till it crumbled away, and even then the dust was carefully gathered and tied up in a handkerchief, and she cherished those memories no matter what she said about princes and holier-than-thou attitudes, because they were treasures and possibilities, all of them.)_

* * *

Originally, this was supposed to be a song fic to 'Witch' by a bunch of Vocaloids. Then, 'Daughter of Evil', 'Servant of Evil', some kind of best friend to the rescue thing happened, and it turned into this. Ah, well.

Surprise to the one who figures out the daughter of evil reference. If you're not an anon, that is.

**Translations for Line Breakers** (not by me, I refuse to be held accountable should they be wrong. I got them from Anime Lyrics dot com, from the lyrics to 'Witch'.)

**Penitenziagite**: Repent

**Opus transit in otium**: My devotion has evaporated into nothingness

**La mortz est super nos**: Death is weighing down upon us

**Virtus migrat in vitium**: Virtue has become vice

**Nunc cuncta rerum debita**: Now everything there is

**Exorbitant a semita**: has derailed from the right path and gone mad


End file.
